If the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvelous science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honor, value, exalt them, and even crown them witt the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, as if to shos that they whose brows are honored and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone.

Over time, I have come to see the work of literature less as narrating the world than 'seeing the world with words'. From the moment he begins to use words like colors in a painting, a writer can begin to see how wondrous and surprising the world is, and he breaks the bones of language to find his own voice. For this he needs paper, a pen, and the optimism of a child looking at the world for the first time.

Canto the Fourth

INothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end;For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

IIBut Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at lastMan, -- and, as we would hope, -- perhaps the devil, That neither of their intellects are vast:While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this -- the blood flows on too fast;But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

The Scribe

I'm being visited more and more seldom By respiration. I can't breathe anymore -so I can't write therefore, I live no more.

And here I ask: The portion of my air I did not breathe (Since I was gone before the deadline) Is it worth anything? At least it could be given to the poor (If this were possible) But this is such an absurd parsimony Of Nothingness.

And further on: The thoughts I left unwritten By whom will they be finished? Since grains of sand are not alike How could a new pen different from mine Resume the thread exactly from the point I ceased?

'Tis Eve on the Hillside

'Tis eve on the hillside, the bagpipes are distantly wailing, Flocks going homewards, and stars o'er the firmament sailing, Sound of the bubbling spring sorrow's legend narrating, And beneath a tall willow for me, dear one, you are waiting.

The wandering moon up the heavens her journey is wending, Big-eyed you watch through the boughs her gold lantern ascending, Now over the dome of the sky all the planets are gleaming, And heavy your breast with its longing, your brow with its dreaming.

Cornfields bright flooded with beams by the clouds steeply drifted, Old cottage gables of thatch to the moonlight uplifted, The tall wooden arm of the well in the wind softly grating, And the shepherd-boy's pipe from the sheep-pen sad "doina" relating.

The peasants, their scythes on their backs, from their labour are coming, The sound of the "toaca" its summons more loudly is drumming, While the clang of the village church bell fills the evening entire, And with longing for you like a faggot my soul is on fire.